


The Sense of Syntax

by sophiagratia



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Bularian Canapés, Diplomacy, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-09
Updated: 2012-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-29 06:48:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiagratia/pseuds/sophiagratia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grammar and diplomacy in the Romulan Spring. Or: it always comes down to the canapés.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sense of Syntax

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cosmic_llin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_llin/gifts).



If there’s one thing Lwaxana Troi can’t _stand_ , it’s feeling empathically off-balance. And these people with their coils and roils of feelings, their thoughts not abstractions or images but highly wrought language, and such an impossible language at that – these people are so hard to read.

Still, she must appear as though she knows. As though she is not puzzling through the thorny wilderness of Rihannsu’s syntactic arabesques; as though she is not playing a very unaccustomed guessing-game. That one, for example, over by the buffet – she’s almost certain that one has a wary distaste for Federation cuisine. Lwaxana can hardly blame her. She’s hardly eaten a thing that tasted of anything since the Enterprise-E fetched her rather unceremoniously from her home on Betazed.

‘Try the canapés,’ she says, on a safe bet. The woman turns with a look that might be surprise, and might be warm. Or perhaps she’s offended. Damn these Romulans.

‘Indeed. Thank you.’ Lwaxana prepares them a mutual plate, hoping that the Betazoid custom of sharing food will produce the trust and intimacy it’s meant to. The Romulan woman watches her carefully with what might either be curious interest or wariness or disguised offense. Still, she’s either quick on the uptake or has done her homework: she takes a bite of canapé from Lwaxana’s hand, and offers the same gesture in return to Lwaxana.

And the look on her face at the taste of the Bularian creme tells Lwaxana that she’s hit her mark – with more accuracy than she could have hoped. She extends a hand, smiling broadly.

‘Lwaxana Troi.’ Titles would go over badly, she thinks. Besides, she’s already so conspicuous among these sober dignitaries, in her curve-embracing bias-cut Tholian silk and a towering confection of gem-threaded pastel curls – it hardly seems necessary to get fussy about Rings and Chalices.

‘Kimara Cretak.’ With just the barest hint of a smile. An unsteady flare of cautious interest comes through, wrapped in the static of Rihannsu’s peculiar counterfactual-conditional-present-perfect. Lwaxana tamps down the temptation to congratulate herself.

‘An honor,’ she says, as though she knew all along. ‘We owe this day to you, Ms. Cretak.’ The flare destabilizes into an anxious imperfect subjunctive.

‘My thanks, Ambassador Troi. The road has not been an easy one.’ A set of cloudy clauses ambiguously subordinated defeats Lwaxana’s attempt to interpret them, and for a moment she fears she’s misfired. She hangs her guess on ‘self-doubt’ – and she knows trauma when she sees it. She presses forward.

‘It’s not every woman who can escape a Tal Shiar prison, Ms. Cretak. And to rise to leadership, to broker a major treaty’ – she tries an admiring smile – ‘please, permit me to raise my glass to you.’ Their flutes chime, and they share a pause and a moment’s eye-contact around the perfect pitch of the best of Earth champagne.

‘I’ve had some considerable help, Ambassador.’ This with a clear pulse of warmth and a broad flash of red that Lwaxana thinks might indicate that Bajoran woman, the General with her fierce intelligence like a whipstrike to a telepath’s mind. She takes the chance.

‘Two women who understand too well the price of peace – a force fit to defeat even the Tal Shiar’s best efforts, to make even these self-involved Federation types sit up and listen. You really must accept my admiration.’ The reward of Cretak’s true smile and the warmth of her mental vocative of respect comes quick and strong.

‘We can only hope they keep listening.’ A settling of her emotions into a string of short, emphatic indicatives. A brief bright spark that Lwaxana can’t identify. ‘Come, Ambassador. Another glass. I’ve some colleagues I’d like to introduce you to.’ She nods to a knot of Vulcans and Romulans – women, every one, Lwaxana observes with interest.

She accepts the glass and tips it in token of gratitude. ‘Lwaxana, please.’ A final risk.

And a final reward: ‘Kimara,’ with a wink and one clear imperative in Betazoid: _Know that I shall always be glad of your alliance_.

And, Lwaxana thinks, as they cross the room, just a touch of self-congratulation might not be entirely out of place.


End file.
